


In Which Vampires Are a Bit Like Instant Soup, and a Passable Time Is Had By All

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: Johannes Cabal - Jonathan L. Howard
Genre: Blood, Implied Violence, M/M, Vampires, barely any plot to speak of, generally disturbing, no it's not, vampirism is a metaphor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-23 04:04:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2533520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Does just what it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Vampires Are a Bit Like Instant Soup, and a Passable Time Is Had By All

**Author's Note:**

> I am not in any way associated with the writing of Johannes Cabal, and this school is not in any way associated with the writing of Johannes Cabal. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you and good night.

Imagine a scene of natural beauty, half pastoral and half wild, divided almost exactly in two. In the latter half, stands a box car, overgrown by creeping vines and stunted trees; a mist hangs loosely a few inches above the ground like socks that haven't yet decided if they want to fall down all the way. How long has the boxcar been there? A hundred years, it seems, judging by the way the plant life has all but molded itself to the shape of the boxcar. It's a nasty little place, vaguely frightening in the way for which the German language has thoughtfully provided a word: unheimlich, meaning literally 'un-home-like', meaning generally 'uncanny'. In the former half of the scene is a great pasture, full of sheep. There's something unheimlich about them, too, but they can't really help it, being sheep.  
Witness as the mist begins to stir. As it coalesces, the sheep stir, too, but in the opposite direction. The mist shakes once- shimmies, the fanciful might say- and gathers itself fully into the shape of a man. The man looks around, sighs, and sets off the direction of the pasture, the sheep, the farmhouse beyond, civilization. Such as it is.

After an unknown period of time- days, or weeks- at a house that looks very uncivilized, indeed, the man walks through the gate, and into the garden. The denizens of the garden might have given him pause if he had not given them pause by plucking one of them from the air, and making a great show of holding it by the wings and devouring it. The crunching sounds are especially effective. Thus, he is given leave to enter the house, to walk through the main corridor and up the stairs to a strange little room where an equally strange man in doing some very strange work, indeed.  
Standing in the doorway of Johannes' study, Horst says: “You owe me.”  
If Johannes is surprised or angry or otherwise affected at all, he doesn't show it. He replies, “Yes, I suppose I do. What did you have in mind?”  
Horst raises his eyebrows. "I think you know."  
Johannes looks at Horst. “Perhaps I don't intend to pay up.”  
Horst looks as though he might be on his way to huffing in frustration, but seems to think better of it. “I could make you.”  
“Really? How terrifying. How?”  
“How would I make you?”  
Johannes puts down his work. “Yes. Would you use force, or those pathetic mind-tricks you liked to use on teenaged girls? Bearing in mind that I am no teenaged girl.”  
Horst shrugs. “Then, force, I guess.”  
“Your own brother,” Johannes clucks, “and to think you like to assume the moral high ground.”  
“You got me killed. Twice over.”  
“It obviously didn't take. What have you got to complain about?”  
“I'm a damned fiend- cursed to live a parody of an existence for all eternity.”  
“We all have our crosses to bear.”  
“Johannes.”  
Frowning acidly, Johannes raises a shoulder- a shrug so dismissive, it manages to contain a second shrug within itself. “Go ahead and do your ghastly business, if you must.”  
Too fast for the human eye to perceive, he's on Johannes- and it's a cheap, low thing to do, but it's so, so satisfying to hear Johannes let out half a gasp and the swallow the rest. At a more normal pace, Horst undoes Johannes' tie and unbuttons his collar, unclothing the pulse that taps beneath. Johannes swallows, an undulation of his throat, and Horst scrapes a fang against his skin. It's not enough pressure, so no blood comes forth, but there's a bloom of irritation against the pallor, and Johannes makes a sound. Now, he goes deeper, and Johannes speaks, says, No.  
“No, what?” asks Horst.  
“Don't.”  
“Don't, what?”  
“Don't kill me.” Johannes swallows and clears his throat. “You're too close to the artery. Let me just-”  
Horst lets him just. Pull away, and go to his work table and come back with a scalpel. “Just cut my arm. And be careful. And be quick.” Horst reaches out to roll up Johannes' sleeve, but Johannes does it first. “I need to sit,” he mutters.  
They both sit, side by side. So cozy. Rubbing his neck, Johannes looks away, and Horst makes the cut. The blood is bright red, first, then rich scarlet. Horst breathes in, lets it well up almost to the point of running over the curve of Johannes' arm, and then carefully brings it up to his mouth. He tastes it, and feels the life returning to his lifeless body. Just for a second, just long enough to make him remember. What it was like. He breathes in deeply through his nose; not for the air, but for the scent. The scent is too much, and though the blood is still flowing freely, Horst sucks. Both far away and shatteringly close, Johannes makes a helpless sound, which he tries to smother with a cough. He tries to pull his arm back, but Horst holds on. Johannes says Horst's name, but Horst barely hears it over the sound of Johannes' increasingly fast heartbeat. This is usually his favorite part: terror has set in, is biting down with teeth of its own, and there's adrenaline and a pointless but invigorating struggle, and then. Then, there is acceptance. And it gets quieter and quieter, until there's silence. In the silence, there's completion, and there's a peculiar kind of peace. If Horst felt any guilt, in that silence, he would find forgiveness. In the end, one death is as good as any other. It's over so quickly, and then, they're beyond any harm that Horst or anybody else could do them.  
This time, when Johannes pulls his arm away, Horst lets him. There's no silence. There's a cacophony, between the thunder of Johannes' heart, and the clatter of objects crashing to the floor when he's stumbling around and looking for bandages, and Johannes mumbling all sorts of unpleasant things.  
“If I tell you to stop, you have to stop,” Johannes says, and drops himself back down into his chair. He's holding his bandaged arm in close to himself.  
“I'd say that I'm sorry, but I'm not.” There's blood somewhere on his face, near his mouth; he can feel it, stretched like another skin, but not its exact location. A mirror would be useless, and it doesn't seem like the best time to ask Johannes, so he rubs absently at his face, hoping that it'll just come off.  
Johannes doesn't say anything. His eyes are closed, but he's not asleep.  
“Shall I make you a cup of tea?”  
Johannes makes a sound that could be, variously, affirmative, negative or expletive, but Horst gets up, anyway, and makes Johannes a cup of strong, sugary tea, and some toast, as well. A meal for a convalescent. Which Horst has made him, he supposes. And Horst, himself, is an eternal convalescent, grappling with an ailment with one treatment, which gives only partial and temporary respite.  
“Drink this.” He holds the cup under Johannes' nose. The sweet, flowery scent reaches Horst's nose, makes his throat tighten and the corners of his mouth turn down involuntarily. Johannes raises a shaking hand for the cup and then opens his eyes. He touches the cup and says, “Too hot.”  
“Well, I'll just leave it here for you. I made you some toast, as well.”  
“I'm not hungry.”  
“Then, I'll just leave it next to the tea. Maybe you should rest.”  
Johannes closes his eyes again. “I am resting.”  
“No, you should sleep.”  
His eyes still closed, Johannes raises his eyebrows. “Are you going to tuck me in? A moment ago, you were ready to kill me.”  
Horst shrugs. “I could, still. I could wait until you're asleep, when it would be even easier.”  
“Why don't you?”  
“I prefer my victims awake.”  
“And quivering with ill-hidden desire, no doubt.”  
“It is more fun that way. Most of them do want it, in the end. It's like they know that they're too drained to go on, so death is the best option.”  
“You're almost doing them a favor.”  
“I could still do it. I could end whatever pain you feel. Not just this pain. All of your pain. You have your soul back; you could still go to Heaven.”  
“I don't think it exists.”  
“You've been to Hell. If that exists, how can Heaven not?”  
Johannes takes a deep breath that raises his shoulders. “Not everything has an opposite. The existence of Hell is proof only of the existence of Hell. Maybe that's all you get when you die: Hell, or oblivion. Only the exceptionally evil get any sort of particular attention. For everyone else, there is only a long dreamless sleep as their great reward.”  
“Or becoming the undead.”  
“Or that.”  
Horst puts a hand on Johannes' shoulder, feels the muscles twitch, but Johannes stays still. “Let me help you to bed.”

Repeated draining over a long period of time, though over-represented in overheated popular literature, is in reality, very rare. Early on, Horst researched the phenomenon, hoping for an alternative to the constant procurement of new victims, with all of its risks. Even with the victim's consent, which is hard enough to acquire over a protracted period of time, it's not practical. The vampire's need is too great, and his self-control too little. Vampires were not, it seems, made to easily integrate themselves into relationships based upon communication and mutual respect.  
Horst has been there a month. Supplemented by the odd sheep and hapless stranger, and the occasional small withdrawals from young ladies, he only needs to feed from Johannes once or twice a week. Still, it's bad for Johannes, and it shows in his appearance, his manner. To anyone else, it'd look like the expected effects of ordinary hard work and stress. Horst, of course, knows that the cause is anything but ordinary, and finds the results fascinating. The ways in which he's changing his brother- as though Johannes were something he was cultivating. Something experimental. Like a scientist, he monitors Johannes- for signs of anemia and other maladies associated with blood loss. At first, Johannes protests against these examinations, but when that does no good, submits.  
Johannes has begun wearing more clothing than he had in the past, which makes sense. The season is changing to fall, and Johannes will feel the cold more acutely. The extra layers pad his breaths and muffle his heartbeat; they make it difficult to accurately take his temperature. Horst has to unbutton his cuffs and his collar to take his pulse, from both wrist and throat. He has to press his ear to Johannes' chest to observe the rhythm of his heart.  
“In case you're suffering from arrhythmia.”  
“This isn't necessary,” Johannes sighs.  
“I thought you were concerned about ill effects to your health.”  
“I'm concerned about where your hand is right now.”  
“Oh.” Without meaning to, he'll seek warmth. His hands wander without his consent, finding their way to Johannes' throat, his waist, his hip. “I'm sorry,” Horst says, even though he isn't. He isn't sorry. He's cold, and he's hungry, and he wants to rip Johannes' throat open. He doesn't even want revenge anymore; he just wants this to be over, even for a few minutes. But he'll take what he can get.  
“You haven't moved your hand.”  
“Really? How silly of me.”  
“I'd heard that all vampires were rapacious sexual deviants, but- no, actually, I didn't put this past you. Do you really feel the need to seduce me, of all people? Surely, you see how humiliating that would be for both of us?”  
“It could be,” Horst didn't mean for it to come out so softly; he clears his throat. “It could be fun, actually.”  
He's looking at Johannes, now, sees him narrow his eyes. For a moment, Johannes looks- not confused, never confused, but a bit out of his depth. “What are you trying to do?”  
“Well, you just said it.” Horst doesn't know why he's come over- not shy, never shy, vampires don't do 'shy'- but, well, slightly human.  
“No, I mean, what are you hoping to gain? Is this some form of vampiric humor? Is this a joke you play on the stupid humans? You try to get them to love you, really love you? Do you get bored of all the manipulation and violence?”  
“Maybe. Maybe it's nicer for everyone if you want it, not just because you're dying and you want the pain to be over. Maybe-” Horst almost says Maybe the blood tastes different, but stops himself, “Maybe it's better.”  
Forgotten but suddenly remembered, Johannes begins doing up his buttons, fumbling with the top one. “Surely, you know by now that I'm not interested.”  
“But what about-”  
“I'm not going to talk about that.”  
How peculiar- 'that', and not 'her'. “But-”  
Johannes sighs. “You do know that you can love someone without feeling the need to actually physically love them, do you not?”  
“So, you've never-”  
“Well, yes, I have. I was gathering data to confirm what I already knew. I'm not interested.”  
“But you've never done it with someone like me before.”  
“A man, or a blood relation- pardon the term. Yes, to the former, thankfully no, to the latter.”  
“No, a vampire.”  
Johannes blinks. “No. That is true. I haven't had sex with a vampire.”  
“And you don't want to try? For the sake of scientific curiosity?”  
“Well, that's certainly lower than you've ever gone- appealing to my interest in the unknown. As though you cared. You just want to get more blood out of me.”  
“As though you were surprised.” Of their own accord, his hands have crept up to the button at Johannes' throat, where one of his hands still fidgets, twisting the button in its hole. Johannes' throat radiates heat like a sun-warmed stone, and just beneath his skin there is a pounding river, an inlet leading to a storming sea of blood. Would Johannes' heart taste bitter? Horst undoes the button, and Johannes lets him. “Tell me to stop,” Horst says.  
“Do you think that there would be a difference?” Johannes asks.  
“You'd have to tell me. I don't remember.” He undoes another button. Johannes is either pulling away or easing back, higher on the bed; Horst follows.  
“You don't remember what?”  
“I don't remember what it's like to be human; I can't imagine what a vampire would feel like to a human being.”  
“How interesting.” Johannes lets him undo a third button, then the ones at his wrists. His pulse is rapid and steady, an endlessly smooth flow of beats, liquid. “What else don't you remember?”  
Horst pauses, then unbuttons Johannes' shirt the rest of the way. “I don't remember having to breathe. I only remember that it happened, whether I thought about it or not; that it took effort to stop breathing. Until I stopped for good.” He takes off Johannes' shirt, untucks the long-sleeved undershirt he's started wearing underneath it. A bloom of rich heat unfurls over Horst's fingers, and he finds that he really does want to do this. Before, it was just a thought to play with on his own, and then a threat to play with, with Johannes, but now- it's a desire. The first touch of his hand against Johannes' belly makes Johannes tremble.  
“Your hands are freezing,” Johannes sneers, then, softly, thoughtfully, “Tell me what else you've forgotten.”  
“I've forgotten my heart. My heartbeat, I mean. I seem to recall that I could feel it sometimes, but what about the rest of the time?” He frowns. “Do you feel yours all the time?”  
“No. Most people don't, unless they're frightened or have been exerting themselves. If they do, under normal circumstances, it means something's wrong.”  
“Do you feel yours, now?”  
Johannes looks down. “I suppose that I do. Do you still have blood, or was it all drained?”  
“I have enough,” Horst murmurs, “If I wanted to change somebody, I could. It doesn't circulate, though.” He takes off Johannes' undershirt, feels a strange kind of surprise when he sees the bandages on his arms that he already knew were there.  
“No. It wouldn't.” Then, Johannes lays his hand over Horst's heart. He holds it there. “Nothing. I'd like to look at your arms, if I might, to see if your veins have collapsed.”  
“All right.” He takes off his shirt, holds his arms before him, and Johannes runs his fingers over the veins, there. He's gentle, even when he presses down, to test the elasticity of Horst's skin.  
“But nerve function is intact, yes?” Johannes asks, “You can feel all of this?”  
“Yes,” says Horst, and kisses him. If Johannes is surprised or annoyed, he doesn't show it, but allows himself to be kissed. The inside of his mouth tastes slightly like his blood. When he's finished, Horst tells him.  
“That makes sense,” Johannes muses, “I have the same genetic material all over my body, so I suppose no matter where you tasted, there would be a common, er-”  
“Flavor.”  
“Yes.”  
“I'm going to kiss you again.”  
“If you must.”  
Horst laughs, then does what he said. Johannes responds, but only in the most perfunctory way. It's enough. Enough to make Horst press on, kissing him, touching him, trying. Trying to find the touch that will make him feel what Horst feels.  
But that's impossible. Because what Horst feels is hunger. For that ocean under Johannes' skin. If he wanted to, he could liberate it, let it flow, let it warm him, let him give him life. The thought is sufficiently comforting that he finds he doesn't need to. Just a taste is enough, drawn from the crook of Johannes' arm, from an unhealed wound that he reopens. It's not enough to warm him, but it is electrifying, giving a kind of life, jittery and evanescent. Kissing Johannes, he slips a hand into his trousers.  
“That really doesn't interest you at all?” he says against Johannes' ear.  
Johannes makes a face. “Mechanically, but not psychologically. If you kept it up, I would respond in the expected fashion, but that would be an involuntary physical response.”  
Horst continues touching him, and finds that this is true.  
“So, you don't feel anything?”  
“I feel a physical sensation, but nothing else. If you were to stop, I wouldn't mind. In fact, I'd be relieved.”  
“You don't like this?”  
“I'll allow that I don't dislike it, exactly, but, I suppose, I don't understand what all the fuss is about. I suppose that you do, though.”  
Horst doesn't speak. He keeps touching Johannes; kisses his mouth, his throat; licks at the wounds on his arm. “It's changed,” he murmurs, “Since I changed. I used to be interested in sex because I just was. I wanted to feel all of the things associated with it. I wanted to feel another person against me. I wanted to touch them, and I wanted them to touch me. I wanted the release, but I wanted everything that came before.”  
“But now?” Johannes is flushed, is moving the way Horst would expect him to- but is that real? Is this for his benefit? Has he mesmerized Johannes without realizing? Is Johannes feeling what he seems to be feeling?  
“I only want blood. I didn't think you'd survive the month. I thought I'd lose control and kill you.”  
“Yet, here we are.”  
“I want to do something.”  
Johannes raises his eyebrows. “Oh, yes?”  
“Yes.”  
Before Johannes can protest, he's changed his position, moved so that his head is between Johannes' legs.  
“Your teeth-” is all Johannes gets out before Horst is sucking him.  
The sound and the feeling of Johannes' heartbeat is all around him, and it's terrible. It brings tears to his eyes. But it's so wonderful. That desire and that pain. It pushes him on, so that he can't stop, he doesn't want to.  
Johannes comes, pulling his hair and making peevish exhalations, most of which are rude words. After a moment, he pulls Horst's hair again, asks, “What do you expect in return?”  
He hadn't thought of that. He considers what he wants, as opposed to what he can safely have. “Take off your clothes.”  
“I'm practically undressed. Surely, you've seen everything of interest.”  
Horst just looks at him. Johannes makes an annoyed sound and does what he was asked. As he does, Horst undresses. And watches.  
Johannes pulls back the sheets and gets under them. “Surely, you'll allow me this.”  
“Yes. I don't want you to catch cold.”  
“If I were ill, could you contract my illness?”  
“That, I do not know,” says Horst, and pulls back the sheets to lay his body over Johannes'.  
“Can you become ill?”  
“I don't know that, either. I haven't been ill since I changed, if that helps.”  
“I'd like to do some tests. Could I have some of your blood?”  
Horst laughs. “Yes. You can have as much as you'd like.”  
“Do you want me to do something?”  
“That would be lovely.”  
“Well, what?”  
“Could you kiss me?”  
Johannes rolls his eyes, but he does kiss him. Horst lays his hand against his cheek, feels the softness of his skin, and the prick of the spots he missed when shaving. Johannes kisses him and kisses him, and it is purely mechanical, but mechanics are all that Horst needs.  
“Touch me,” says Horst.  
“Where?”  
“Everywhere.”  
Johannes' hands are on his face, caressing him; his throat, feeling for a pulse that doesn't beat. He presses his fingernails into Horst's back, digs his fingertips into Horst's hips. “What does it feel like when you can't have blood?”  
“It hurts.” He takes Johannes' left hand by the wrist, pinches the skin between his upper and lower teeth until it splits. Johannes gasps. The blood that comes forth is tart and effervescent. “It's like hunger pangs, but all over my body. Sometimes, I can hardly move for the pain.”  
“That sounds terrible,” Johannes replies blandly. Horst bites his wrist again.  
“It's the worst pain I've ever felt.”  
“Yet, it can't kill you.”  
“If it could, I'd be dead by now.”  
“Hmm.”  
Horst takes the other hand by the wrist, pushes the bones together until Johannes gasps, moves it down under the sheets, and between his legs.  
“Is this a need that vampires have, too- to hurt?”  
“You do it so often, it stops being something you were ever careful not to do.”  
“Ah.” But Johannes does what Horst wants, and Horst can feel the pulse blinking in those fingers, all of those precious capillaries like jeweler's wire. He takes the other hand, which still smells of blood, and kisses the fingers, the palm, the ragged wrist. Kisses Johannes' poor rent arm, and the curve of his shoulder, and his throat with its wild pulse, and his stupid mouth. Kisses him, and pushes against him, and takes his mouth away to tell Johannes that he loves him. Loves him, and that's why he's still alive.  
“How considerate of you,” Johannes says, but it lacks the venom that he'd imagined it would contain.  
Horst comes, holding Johannes close, kissing him wherever he can, so grateful for the blood that body still contains. He gasps: “You're welcome.”


End file.
